


Canvas

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Body Paint, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy, Vincent, and the Doctor, rambling through Provence on a painting expedition.</p><p>...There is literally no universe in which this does not end in sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canvas

“Let me show you my world,” Vincent had offered. “It is the least I can do to repay you; after all, you have shown me so much of yours.”

The Doctor had hemmed and hawed even as Vincent had gone into more detail, the itch to travel rising within him. “Seriously, Doctor?” Amy had said. “Vincent Van Gogh is offering to teach us how to paint, and you're not sure?” She had given him a derisive puff of breath. “Honestly, I thought you'd be jumping at the chance to get another name to drop, Mr. 'which British Prime Minister.'”

“Well, alright,” he had said, and they had paused just long enough for a quick forage for supplies in the TARDIS.

***

That had been four days ago. Amy hadn't counted on the potential for...frustration...that might accompany traipsing through Provence with two geekily attractive, sweet boys (why did she feel like that was somehow her type?). Worse yet, it was damn near impossible to get a solid ten minutes to herself to take care of matters, even if only temporarily. If it wasn't Vincent gushing about the light streaming through the leaves of this copse, it was the Doctor waxing poetic about a new mutation in a species of beetle. 

Fortunately for Amy Pond, the dam was about to break.

***

“It's beautiful,” the Doctor breathes, as soon as they see the flower-lined brook, burbling and plashing in the sun. 

“We should paint it,” Vincent adds. This appears to be his default approach to beautiful things, or so Amy hopes, given that that was all he wanted to do when he stumbled upon her trying to have a wash and bring herself off in the last river they had passed.

“Yes,” the Doctor agrees. “Absolutely. Brilliant, brilliant idea.” Vincent rummages around his bag for paints. (The brushes haven't been properly cleaned in a day; they've been making do with fingers.)

Amy coughs. “We're out of canvas.” Vincent looks crestfallen; he's finally gotten used to the Doctor's insistence that he not merely paint over his old works whenever a new idea seized him. But the upshot has been that they have methodically worked through every bit of canvas, paper, and parchment that they have brought with them, even incorporating a mustard stain on a napkin into a sunflower. “We'll have to come back.”

“No, no, no good,” the Doctor explains. “The light is perfect just now. Another hour, and it'll be dark. Think, think, think,” he says as he paces about the clearing. “There's got to be a solution. Where can we find a piece of pale, smooth material on no notice?” His eyes circle the glade, passing over Amy once, then twice. Then his face turns beet red, and his gaze turns back to Amy. Specifically to her feet because he can't meet her eyes. “Would you mind—for the sake of art—we'll be utter gentlemen--” The Doctor's idea dawns on Vincent first, and he nods rapidly, begging her to agree.

“You want me to get naked, so you can paint on me?” She looks at her boys, her beautiful, eager boys (Why did that sound so right?) and a mischievous smile crosses her lips. “Okay, but you too. Shirts off at least. If nothing else, you'll get paint everywhere.” Vincent is down to his drawers by the time she finishes; it takes a little longer for fastidiousness and aesthetics to triumph over modesty for the Doctor, but not much. “And lose the bow-tie,” she tells him. “Without the shirt on, you look like a burlesque dancer.”

“Amelia!” he gasps, appalled that she even knows what such a thing is, but the tie joins the jacket and shirt in a pile.

“Alright then,” she says, viscerally aware that it is now her turn. She draws herself up to her full height as she pulls off her clothes. Probably she does a terrible job (no matter what you might think a kiss-o-gram does), but the audience certainly seems appreciative.

“You are beautiful,” Vincent murmurs as he approaches her.

“We probably shouldn't paint _you_ on you, though,” the Doctor adds thoughtfully. “I mean, I suppose we could, and I like a good bit of recursion as much as the next sapient being, but, well...”

“Oh, hush,” Amy commands, and beckons to them. The Doctor begins, daubing her arm with red and green, little lines of flowers. Vincent begins by sketching the branches of a tree along her back.

They really are good, she thinks, luxuriating in their touches. They've waited until they've used up virtually every other bit of skin before, well...

“The source of the river,” Vincent murmurs, his fingers, rough through the paint, dripping blue, delving to her delta, finishing the curve that's been running from the side of her neck, over her breast, under her arm, and back around to her navel.

“Sorry, what?” the Doctor asks, face flushing even redder for a moment. “Never mind,” he adds, adding flecks of gold with his slim fingers. Amy is suddenly glad both that she waxed just before this trip, because getting paint out of hair would be no fun, and that she's covered with paint because she's pretty sure that she's blushing everywhere. “Such a lovely shade of pink. Like a seashell.”

“Like Aphrodite,” Vincent adds approvingly, one bent digit tracing her lips lovingly. “A goddess on a seashell.”

“The goddess of love,” the Doctor recites, because it is a fact which he knows and he can't control himself sometimes.

“Yes,” Amy moans, less in agreement and more in pleasure. She turns to one side to kiss Vincent, help him out of his paint-stained trousers. “Please,” she orders him as she dips down to between the Doctor's legs.

“Amelia...” he manages, but he can't bring himself to form a complaint as her blessed mouth draws him in.

***

“We've ruined it,” the Doctor says, looking dejectedly at the gloppy mess of paint their masterwork has become.

“In this case,” Amy replies, “I think we should make an exception to the rule against cleaning off the canvas and starting fresh.” She laughs as she leads them to the stream.


End file.
